


Feh on Fa-La-La

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Early Season/Series 06, F/M, Humor, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-27
Updated: 2005-12-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 04:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14441127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: Scully. The flu. Unfettered thoughts in the presence of aninteresting male nurse.





	Feh on Fa-La-La

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

Scully dragged herself into her apartment, locked the door and tossed the keys on the dining room table. They would probably leave a mark but she couldn't worry about that now. All she wanted was to throw herself down on the couch and pass out. Quickly. 

Off went the coat and the shoes. Down went Scully. Face down, right into the decorative faux suede pillow. Intellectually, she knew she should have taken the time to suck down some Nyquil and tuck herself into her own comfortable bed but the spirit was totally unwilling and the flesh wasn't thrilled with the idea, either. 

Okay, she could lose consciousness now. 

But she knew she wouldn't. In spite of the full bodyache, sore throat and probable raging fever, she was pretty wide-awake. 

Awake to experience the joy during the Season of Joy. Joy to the world. Joy to you and me. What a crock. And where was the Grim Reaper when you needed him? Perhaps he could spare her the frivolities of the flu or the comfy coziness of yet another Christmas season. But, no. Life didn't work out that way. She had to get the flu a full week before Christmas which meant if there was a breath in her body, she would be dragging herself out of bed Christmas morning to experience the wonders of a Scully family Christmas. 

And really, there was nothing quite as warm as spending the day with people who offered you pitying smiles because they felt you were too . . . misguided . . . to realize what a fucked-up life you led. Bad career choice, really bad personal life choice, no prospects of a normal life whatsoever. Here, hold a kid and experience for a second the joys you can never have in your miserable barren life. 

Auntie Dana.  
Career Woman Dana.  
Kick-ass FBI Agent Scully.  
Mulder-Loving Clueless Scully. 

She pushed her head further into the pillow, thankful for the faux material. The smell of real suede would have done her in at this point. She only wished she had had the presence of mind to grab a throw or the comforter off her bed because she was feeling a bit chilled about now. And her cold, cold, bitter heart did nothing to warm her up. When had she become Scully the Secret Scrooge? 

Sleep. She wanted sleep so badly. She should get up off of the couch and drink half a bottle of Nyquil. That would do it. But she hated the stuff. It made her feel stupid the next morning, worse than a hangover. Maybe that was the answer. Straight Scotch instead. At least the hangover was somehow more honest. 

No, she would forego alcohol and count sheep. Or, better yet, go to the deepest recesses of her mind and dig out a Mulder fantasy. That should do it. Usually, before he even kissed her in her imagination, she would be out cold. Why would her fantasy life be any more gratifying than her real one? 

Romance and Mulder: interesting concept, that. She supposed they had had their moments that year. That whole hallway incident. Damn bee. His lips actually on hers when she sort of, maybe, stopped breathing for a few seconds. His warm lips on her icy blue ones. That must have been a turn-on. She was glad her memory of that was very, very fuzzy. Then there was that whole nakedness thing. He got to see her naked twice. Hold back the raging hormones! Instead of just blue lips, he saw an entire blue body covered in slime. And even though the decontamination shower wasn't quite as bad and he did, indeed, sneak a peek, he didn't seem all that impressed. She could tell because she snuck an eyeful herself and, while it was an eyeful, it was an immobile eyeful. Damn. 

And double damn. 

Church bells were ringing. 

Was it Christmas already? Good, she was still sick. Maybe she could beg off the Scullybration. 

Christmas. Such a beautiful holiday, really. Too bad real life had tainted it for her. Her father dying around Christmas. Emily. The whole issue of future babies and such. 

She should get up and drag herself to Church. She wanted to do that. She didn't want to see her family. No way, no how. Not this year. 

Now the neighbors were hammering something. What was wrong with people? Didn't they know it was Christmas? Or was it? She didn't remember sleeping. She remembered throwing herself on this cold couch and thinking about Mulder's personal parts not rising to the occasion. 

"Scully?" 

Auditory hallucinations. No, that wasn't the word for it. Was it? Hallucinations were visual. No, hallucinations included all the senses. Right? No? Yes? Damn. She should know. She knew everything. 

A hand touched the back of her shoulder and she jumped a little. 

"FBI. Freeze," she said in a groggy voice and let her head fall back to the pillow. 

"You're alive. Good. You had me wondering there for a moment." 

Mulder was here. In her apartment. Yippee. 

The hand returned. "Scully? Can I roll you over?" 

Sure, baby. You can roll me over anytime. She was giggling like crazy in her mind. She wasn't doing it really, though. Dana Scully didn't get hysterical over a juvenile thought. She knew how to do Sick. She even knew how to do Dying. She did it beautifully. Strong. Stoic. Scully. Of course, no one knew the Secret Scully. The one who was whining like your finest threeyear old and feeling sorry for herself and needing a hug but never asking for one because big girls didn't do stuff like that and she was a big girl except she was little in stature which made her work twice as hard and . . . what was she supposed to do again? Oh, yeah. Roll over, Rover. It took a Herculean effort but she managed. She now had a view of the ceiling through a curtain of red hair. A now cold hand lifted the curtain. Much better. 

The cold hand stayed on her forehead for a moment. 

"Just what I thought. You have a fever." 

"You're not a doctor," Scully said, thinking about rolling over again into the nice fake cow pillow, but unable to physically pull it off. 

"No, but the blisters forming on my fingers gave me my first clue." 

Scully made a sound that was supposed to be a proper, haughty scoffing sound but sounded like a raspberry that ran out of air. 

"What can I get for you?" he asked. He sounded concerned. She supposed he might have that little scrunchy line between his eyes but she was too tired to actually move her head to look at him. 

"Blanket. And Tylenol. Water. For the Tylenol. And another blanket," and a Scotch, she thought, but didn't say because everyone knew that acetaminophen and booze didn't go and would rot your liver so even Eugene Victor Tooms wouldn't want it. 

He was back. Not Tooms, they had squished him, but Mulder. 

And he was forcing her to sit up by yanking on her arm. 

"Hey," she said, not able to think of anything more cutting. 

"You can't relax in that blazer. I'm helping you change clothes." 

Oh, sure. Why the hell not? Nakedness was nothing to him. Well, her nakedness was nothing to him. He had one of her tee shirts and a pair of sweatpants on top of her blankets. Who told him he could rest that pile of stuff on her coffee table anyway? 

He was pulling off her blazer but hesitated when it came to unbuttoning her shirt. 

She swatted at his hand. "Turn around. I can do it myself." 

"I've technically seen you in a lot less, Scully," he said, with a small smile. 

"What a thrill that must have been for you. Now, turn around." 

She took a deep breath, fumbled with the buttons on her blouse, undid them, and pulled it off. Took another deep breath and pulled on the tee shirt. Damn, she was freezing. Her breathing now resembled the sound a train makes when it's puffing toward the station. She yanked down her pants and pantyhose and sat there with her legs exposed, while she tried to find that one core center of strength in the very depths of her being that would give her the energy to put on her sweatpants. 

Finally, she lay back down. "I'm finished," she said, meaning it literally in every sense of the word. 

"Can I turn around now?" Mulder asked with that irritating tone of amusement in his voice. 

"Turn around." 

"You sure you're decent?" 

"I'm gonna kick your ass," she muttered, praying for death. For her or Mulder, she wasn't sure. 

He turned around and spent a moment looking at her. Just looking at her. That squishy line formed between his brows. She must have looked like crap. 

"Open," he said, holding a thermometer in his hand. Did she ask him to rummage through her medicine cabinet. What if she had some fascinating sexual device in there? 

Who was she kidding? And you didn't keep those things in a medicine cabinet anyway. You kept them in the linen closet in the jumbo-sized box of tampons. Or so she heard. 

She felt the thermometer slide of her mouth. 

"102.4. Good number for a radio station; not so good for body temperature," Mulder declared. 

"Again, I repeat, you are not a doctor," Scully said, just to be ornery. 

He sighed and took the Tylenol and water. He yanked at her arm again. 

"Ow," she said, aiming for the witty response this time. 

"I'm sorry. Let's just get some Tylenol in you and you can rest." 

"Promises. Promises." She sat up, swallowed the pills and sunk back down. 

Finally, he put the down comforter around her and tucked her in. He then added another blanket over her for good measure. He leaned over her. "All warm and toasty? Do you want some tea?" 

Yuck. "No tea, Mulder. I can barely stomach the pills." 

"I knew you didn't look right at work. I'm sorry. I should have told you to go home hours ago." 

"You're not a doctor, Mulder." 

"You keep saying that. Okay, then, Physician, heal thyself -- although I won't point out that members of your specialty haven't had a whole lot of success in that area. In the meantime, I am here to serve. What else can I get you? Do you want to watch tv?" 

Mulder was here to serve. Serve Scully. That didn't sound right, somehow. 

"Sure. Put something on. Anything." She just wanted the noise in case she fell asleep and snored. Assuming she'd ever sleep again. Although she did feel a little . . . 

Hot. She felt so hot. And wet. And not in a good way. 

She opened her eyes and Mulder's face loomed right over hers. He had a wash cloth and was wiping the sweat from her face. 

"I'm all wet, Mulder." 

"I know. Your fever seems to be down, though. I'll check it in a minute." 

"I hate having wet clothes on," she said, kicking off her blankets. 

"Well, then, take them off and I'll get you new ones." 

"You're always trying to get me naked," she muttered. 

Mulder laughed. Great. He had to rub in just how preposterous the thought was. 

She pulled the blanket back up and took off her clothes, throwing the damp ones on the floor. In a moment, Mulder was handing her fresh pajamas. Flannel. Another flattering choice. If Fowley were sick (the thought instantly cheered her), he would go into her bedroom and no doubt find some see-through lacy thing to have her change into. That thought instantly depressed her. 

"Need help?" he asked, managing to look both innocent and mischievous at the same time. She pulled the blanket from her chin to her mouth. 

"No, thank you. I'll let you know if I can't do it." 

Mulder turned his back to her. "I'll just sit here in great anticipation of your failing, then." 

Yeah, right. 

She could do this. It was just like a situp, really. She lifted herself up and pulled the pajama top over her head, then pulled on the pants. Then fell back, exhausted. Not just like a situp. More like a rag doll falling over when someone tried to put it in an upright pose. But her head did feel a little clearer and she was more alert than she had been earlier in the day. She had to be thankful for that, at least. 

"Scully, can I turn around now or would you like a few more minutes alone with yourself?" 

"What?" 

"You're breathing pretty heavy there." 

"That's amusing, Mulder." 

"Can't say I don't have a charming bedside manner, can you?" He turned around and smiled one of his rare, award-winning smiles. Jackass. 

"Very charming," she said in as sarcastic a tone as she could muster. 

"Now let me just get your clothes," he said, bending down to retrieve the damp articles of clothing. 

She put her hand on his arm. "Leave them." 

"Why?" 

She didn't want him touching her sweaty things. Fowley's clothing would probably reek of some disgusting perfume made to drive men wild while hers would just . . . well, reek. "Just leave them. Please." 

"Oh-kay," he said, and after another round of temperature-taking, Tylenol and tucking in, he sat down on the chair nearest the couch, which apparently had been his "home base" while she had been sleeping. 

She kicked at her blankets again. The room was very dark. Much darker than when she first got home from work. And David Letterman was on now, which meant she had been asleep for almost three hours. 

Mulder suddenly got up, went behind the tree and plugged it in. The room was filled with the soft glow of colored lights. He went back to Scully and sat at the foot of the couch, pulling her feet on his lap and softly warming them with his hands. Much better than a blanket. 

"I like Christmas trees," he said suddenly. 

"Really?" 

"What's not to like? They smell good, have nice lights and chachkas on them. I wouldn't necessarily want to be picking pine needles off of my floor but it's nice to see them in someone else's house." 

His hands were now kneading the instep of her right foot. Her left foot was a bit cold, though, and she burrowed it against his sweater. She was sure he'd say something suggestive but she just watched him smile and let the opportunity pass. The man possessed such self control sometimes. 

"I don't really know why I continue to have one," Scully found herself admitting. 

"You don't want to?" 

"I don't know, " she said, surprised by her own words. "I'm not sure how I feel about Christmas anymore. Well, actually, I know how I feel about the holiday. I just don't know how I feel about all that surrounds it." 

"Family stuff?" 

"Yes." 

"Can't you skip the family thing this year? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, so they say." 

"Yes, Mulder. I'm familiar with that bit of pithiness. Except, in this case, I'm afraid that absence would become a habit and that's unacceptable. Our family has already lost people and we don't need to fall apart completely just because I'm not as comfortable as I once was." 

"Well, what if you still aren't feeling well?" 

"I'll be fine. It's a week away." 

"But, what if you aren't? I must have earned an honorary medical degree by now. I can give you a note." 

"Uh-huh." 

He reached over and yanked at both her arms this time. 

"Mulder, what are you doing? I prefer the prone position if you don't mind." 

"You'll get couch sores. Come on, lean against me and let's look at the tree and you can tell me about your perfect 'Christmas without family' fantasy." 

"I can't do that," she said, sitting up and swinging her legs the other way. She had no choice but to lean on Mulder's shoulder. Between the dizziness and queasiness, a firm shoulder was definitely a necessity. 

"Sure you can," he said, putting an arm around her and settling her closer to his side. She closed her eyes. It just felt too damned good. He did love her. That much she always knew. "You're not being disloyal. You're just exploring an alternate universe. Come on, in the spirit of extreme possibilities." 

"You can try the patience of a saint," she said, closing her eyes and pretending he was in-love with her, too. 

He took the blanket and wrapped it around the both of them. 

"Nice and cozy, huh? Okay. Here is another scenario that will put your Catholic guilt to rest. The mother of all blizzards has hit the area. Planes are not taking off, your brother and his brood are stuck in California and your mother refuses to leave her house because, well, she can't even get out of her house, the snow is so high. So, you are stuck making due with a different kind of Christmas. And, I guess I decide to spend that Christmas with you. Now, go. Be creative without guilt." 

"This is crazy, Mulder," she said, liking the scenario more than she cared to admit. 

"When have I heard that before? Come on." 

Okay. She had certainly gone on stranger trips with this man than the one he was inviting her on now. 

"All right. I would go to Church in the morning, if I could physically get there -- through the blizzard and all. You don't have to go if you're uncomfortable." 

"Thanks. I wouldn't want the building falling down around me or lightening to strike. Innocent beings might be hurt." 

"And then, after Mass, I would stop somewhere and pick up donuts." 

"Agent Scully. I am going to fall right off this couch from the shock of you eating a full-fat food." 

"It's Christmas. Christmas calories don't count." 

"Is that your medical opinion?" 

"Yes." 

"Cool. Go on." 

"I'd bring them back and we'd eat breakfast and look at the tree. Listen to some Christmas carols," Scully's voice faded away with the fantasy. 

Mulder gave her a soft nudge with his shoulder. "And?" 

"And, nothing, Mulder. Nothing." She was suddenly sadder than she had been all day. "I can't do this because I can't see you doing this. I can't even see you doing _this_ \-- this babysitting of the sick partner. You _are_ doing it but it's so out of character. I just picture you getting a phone call and running out of here -- singing 'Born Free' at the top of your lungs as you race down the street without your coat." 

Mulder laughed. He wasn't offended in the least, although she wasn't sure she'd care if he were. Why couldn't he have a homey bone in his body? Just one? 

"Who knew you knew such an old song?" 

"Were you listening to what I said, Mulder?" 

He looked her straight in the eye. "I run a lot. Run away. With you and even from you. Yes, you were loud and clear about that. And I don't fit into any fantasies involving the mundane, which I find both refreshing and flattering." 

"You do?" 

"Yes. Any man can provide you with a 'normal life.' I know you don't deserve everything I've brought to the table but at least I haven't bored you. You are the type of woman who needs adventure. Needs challenge. And I've delivered in those areas." 

"Is this the Oxford-educated psychologist speaking?" 

"You think you're the only one who can show off a degree? No. Oxford has nothing to do with my assessment. I speak from a superior knowledge of the uncommon variety of Scully." 

"Everyone knows me so well. Or thinks they do." 

"So, I'm completely wrong? You actually want the life your family thinks you should have?" 

She was quiet for a moment. "No." 

"And you'd like to celebrate Christmas with me in the way you described?" 

"Definitely not. But I wouldn't mind spending Christmas with you in a different way," she said, looking up at him. Even though her fever had gone down a point, she suddenly felt a bit warm. She was tucked under a blanket with Mulder, his face inches from hers, lit only by the glow from the television and the tree. 

"Like . . . " he prompted, his voice barely above a whisper. 

This could get dangerous. Feelings could be exposed. She might find out that Fowley was nothing but a passing plaything. Like a real-life blow-up doll. She might find out that a man who had gone to the ends of the earth to save his partner actually had deep feelings for said partner. Feelings so deep they even caused him to ignore her nakedness so he could do what needed to be done in order to keep her alive and take care of baser needs at a later date. 

Yes, feelings could easily be revealed. And they might even be reciprocal. Why, if he was willing, she could even, maybe, give him the flu. 

But she had taken an oath to heal, not harm. 

Damn it. 

"I don't know," she said, finally answering his question, adding a light tone to her voice to diffuse the situation. "Something more in keeping with your character." 

She _did_ know. She wanted a great big romantic Christmas adventure only Mulder could provide. But it was not something she could script even in her wildest imagination. Her family was wrong. The only trouble loving Mulder brought to Scully's life was not being able to schedule anything ahead of time. Nothing was ever as simple as it appeared. Go to work at a certain hour, expecting nothing but paperwork and end up in Nebraska checking the cornfields for alien virus by nightfall. She had no indication that romance with Mulder would be any different. 

Which thrilled her. And scared her. In a good way. 

But it wasn't going to happen this year. She needed to spend time with her family at Christmas. Perhaps one day they would realize the type of person she was now was a direct result of her upbringing and genetic makeup. That the choices she made and the life she was living was one that suited her, even if it wasn't one everyone else could easily embrace. Perhaps they would accept her as she was. Accept their differences. 

Or, perhaps, they wouldn't. 

What they would do, though, was give her balance. A couple of days with them would send her running to Mulder singing 'Born Free' at the top of her lungs. And that would be the sweetest of post-Christmas carols. 

The inner Scully started to giggle again. 

"What's so funny, Scully?" 

Oops. The outer Scully was whooping it up pretty well, too. 

"It's the fever, Mulder. I'm pretty sure it's returned and I'm heading toward delirium." 

Mulder started to remove the blanket from his side. Scully put her hand down on it. "Where are you going, Mulder? Running away?" 

"Getting more Tylenol." 

"Don't you dare," she said, snuggling back against his shoulder. "I'm just fine." 

And, for once, she meant it. 

The End. 

Author's notes: 

How could I let a Christmas go by without a sappy story? I told myself I wouldn't do it, but I lied. 

By the way, in another week, Scully's flu went bye-bye and she and Mulder had a lovely, romantic adventure with ghosts that bore an uncanny resemblance to Ed Asner and Lily Tomlin. Sadly, Mulder did not come down with the flu. Perhaps (for the truly delusional) he had a flu shot? 

This story is dedicated to my brother because I've never dedicated anything to him and he was my best friend growing up and is still one of the truly good guys in this world. It doesn't matter if he doesn't actually know about this strange little hobby of mine. It's the thought that counts <vbg>. 

My second dedication (hey, I don't write much anymore - \- I have to cram in all the dedications I can) is to everyone at Beyond the Sea. I may not always participate but I'm always paying attention. And in my quiet way, I really do care about each and every one of you. 

I wish each of them and each person reading this the most joyous of holiday seasons and a New Year filled with good health and happiness. 

#### If you enjoyed this story, please feed the author.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Title: **Feh on Fa-La-La**  
Author: Gina Rain  
Details: 22k  ·  PG-13  ·  Standalone  ·  12/27/05  ·   Email/Website      
Gossamer Category(Keywords): Story   [UST, Humor]     
Characters: Mulder, Scully     
Pairings: Mulder/Scully UST   
SPOILERS: Early season 6   
SUMMARY: Scully. The flu. Unfettered thoughts in the presence of an   
interesting male nurse.   



End file.
